Harrison Ellis is a wall in a black suit. He plants himself across the exit, smile thin, his guards on either side of him.
“Leaving so soon?” His voice is polished marble, not a hint of warmth. “You haven’t even heard the speeches.”
Eve shrinks a fraction, just enough for my spine to register it. She is brave, but she knows the cost of making a scene in front of men like my father. You let them feel superior or you pay.
Rhett comes up behind me, half a step back. Bam beside him.
“We’re going home.”
Harrison’s teeth show. “A few minutes for a family obligation. Even you can manage that.”
He cocks his chin.
Before I can tell him that his time as a member of the Ellis family is drawing dangerously close to the end, a single, deliberate tap echoes from the stage, drawing our attention.
The MC stands there, sweating, a wide grin below his moustache. He raises his glass high and every donor, every legacy, every Board stooge falls silent.
“And now, the moment we’ve all been waiting for.” His voice rolls over the crowd, amplified by the hunger in the room. “Acelebration not just of tradition, but of innovation. A reminder that Westpoint’s doors remain open to… the worthy.”
He draws out the pause, letting the air go stale. “Miss Eve Allen, would you do us the honor?”
Eve’s knuckles go bloodless. Her lips part, but nothing comes out.
Fuck what now?
My father just grins. “Better get going, Ms. Allen. It wouldn’t be wise to deny such an honor in front of the cameras.”
I put my hand on her back. It’s a silent command—shoulders straight, head high. She obeys, because she has no choice.
Neither do I.
In any other room, in any other space, without the crowds and this would be over. But we’re right, right now, and if we slight the likes of these people, we may end up swimming with the fish.
It’s a delicate dance.
One I will lead because her life is worth everything to me.
We walk together. The crowd opens a vein, creating an aisle of curious faces, every single one hungry for the show. We reach the platform. The MC motions me to the side, like an errant childbefore taking hers and pulling her up the stairs. I want to break his wrist for touching my girl, but I let him do it.
He puts his hand on her shoulder, not gentle. His fingers dig in, holding her in place as he turns her toward the room.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he croons, “our new annual tradition is not just about legacy, but about lifting up those who would otherwise be lost. Tonight, we witness the triumph of potential over circumstance. A living, breathing testament to Westpoint’s benevolence.”
His hand squeezes. Eve’s back arches, but her chin doesn’t drop. I memorize the angle of her neck, the tremor in her jaw. She keeps her eyes forward, trained on me, refusing to meet the gaze of the Board.
The MC leans in, close enough for her to smell the rot under his cologne. “Tell us, Miss Allen, how did it feel to be chosen?”
She finds her voice. “I was surprised.”
He laughs, a stage laugh. The crowd echoes it, a ripple of derision. “Oh, I think we were all surprised. After all, who would expect a—” he searches for the word, “—street rat, to thrive among lions?”
A flush creeps up her neck, but she doesn’t blink. “But I’m not a street rat,” she says.
The MC beams. “Oh silly child! You are, but, ladies and gentlemen… our protea, resilient and beautiful even in the harshest soil, has flourished. She won her place among us all.”
He turns her with a showman’s flourish, presenting her like a circus act. “See how she shines?” he says. “This is the future, dear friends. The evidence of our investment.”
He lets his hand slide from her shoulder to her arm, lingering too long. The gesture is possessive. It is also a warning.
